Love(n't)

Love. What is love? I can only answer that question from a surface level understanding. The definition of love according to the dictionary is “an intense feeling of deep affection”, but I’ve never felt it. Those from the past have written stories upon stories about this supposedly wonderful word. Oh, how I wonder what it’s like.

I guess I should introduce myself. People tend to skip simple pleasantries nowadays. My name is Haywood, Haywood Clover. Those who tolerate me just call me Clover. However, that group of people is limited to a very small number.

Anyways, what brings you to this part of town? Not many care to venture this far… This place, now called Pontaiac, used to be called Rome, once called “the city of art”. Unfortunately, all that has gone away since the new changes that have been carried out. And the worst part? It was us who brought about these obscenities.

Sparta, that’s what I like to call what the government titled America 2.0. A land void of feelings. 

It all started when society deemed art less of a valuable skill than mathematics. Anything creative was deemed unnecessary. Initially, it wasn’t all that bad. Students were simply discouraged from pursuing a career in the arts. Eventually every creative endeavor was put to an end. 

Society stripped away every ounce of color they could find. Color was deemed the enemy. My theory is that colors are the source of emotions. Strip variety from people’s lives and feelings will easily give way next. It became a cascading waterfall of doom and gloom. Everything became a consuming sea of black and white.

Do you know what it’s like to feel? All I’ve ever known is numbness. I’m sure it’s wonderful. To feel, that is. You’re probably wondering how I even know what feelings are, considering it’s been years since what my family has dubbed “the change” occurred. Well, you see, my mother is what her history books call a rebel. 

She goes from town to town like a missionary while my father is at work to explain to others what life was like before the change. Her hope is that by describing what it is like to feel, the world will learn to love again and maybe color will return to our bland planet once more. I’ve asked her for years if I could come with her someday. And time and time again she’s said no. Something about it being too dangerous, apparently. 

Unluckily for her, I’m 18 now and don’t have to listen to her wishes anymore.

That’s what brings me to where I am at the present moment. Upon my shoulders that shook from anxiety slung a heavy backpack filled with textbooks, old manuscripts, and poetry. I stood on the mountain that overlooked our neighboring town. However, “neighboring” might not be the right term as I had to trek five miles to get here… Surveying the area beyond, I saw metallic, geometric buildings that littered the streets without a piece of foliage in sight.

Oh, that’s another thing. Trees have been extinct since before I was born, but my mother told me about them. I heard that they are tall and green and can even go from green to brown during the wintertime! Of course I don’t know what orange or brown looks like, but that’s besides the point. Actually, that is the entire point for why I’m here.

Looking to my left, I saw a sturdy looking scrap of sheet metal that seemed like it could hold up my stocky boy body. An image of a roller coaster from a textbook I’d seen before flashed in my mind. Mother described them as a brilliant piece of machinery that people from the past built with their own two hands. They were curvy looking methods of transportation that moved up and down at the speed of light! One day I’m going to ride one even if the government kills me for doing it.

That’s when I had an idea- I timidly put both feet onto the scrap metal. Scanning my surroundings, I checked to make sure no one was watching me before pushing off the ground. Gravity did its magic and I went flying down the mountain side. 

That’s what it was like- true magic. Leaning my body to the left, I swerved side to side, letting my makeshift sled take me where it wished. My heart began beating faster and faster. However, it wasn’t because of fear. No, this was something else, something… pleasant maybe? Not only had my heart rate increased, but a pressing weight that had been in my chest since I was a child began to lift slightly. It was as if years of numbness had shed off a single layer.

What am I experiencing? I hoped that it wasn’t a heart attack… It would be quite embarrassing to explain to my parents that I’d gotten a heart attack while on a mission they explicitly disapproved of.

Regardless of these impending thoughts, I instinctively held out my arms to keep my balance and prevent myself from falling as I nearly just did. The cool breeze unsteadily flowed in and out of my nose while a smile crossed my lips. I am determined that I can do this! I will bring back feelings to the world and then soon I’ll get to see what the color brown looks like.

Crouching down to acquire more momentum, I must’ve gotten too much speed because I accidentally knocked into a girl at the bottom of the mountain. Ouch. Seems as though this mountain wasn’t as big as I thought it was.

“Hello,” I waved a hand nervously as I rubbed my injured head with the other.

She didn’t respond with words, but an outstretched hand told me that she didn’t wish any harm upon me. Mother didn’t know what she was talking about when she said venturing out would be dangerous, I thought. I took her hand and she swung me onto my feet to face her, fists up and blocking her face. Ok, maybe she was a little bit right.

Without thinking, I put my fists in front of my face as well. My father continuously trained me in self defense since I was one of the weaker kids of my grade. He’s the reason behind why I called America 2.0 “Sparta”. Unlike my mother, he agreed with the majority of our population that military involvement is the greatest accomplishment one can have.

I had to remind myself that I was here for a noble reason and had no reason yet to fight this girl. Plus, if I want to share the news my mother taught me then I’ll have to show these people that I come in peace. 

“Ahem,” I continued, holding my hands behind my back casually, “Hi, um-”.

The stranger interrupted me ever so rudely, “Spit it out and give me a reason not to hurt you or it’s over.” 

See, I told you. Violence upon violence is what modern society obsesses over. The girl tied her long black hair into a ponytail, revealing a cherry blossom tattoo across her right shoulder. Art. A real life piece of art in 3045 AD! She must be a rebel like my mother.

My newfound friend saw me staring and covered her tattoo with both hands protectively. Holding up both hands as one would do in surrender after battle, I said, “Whoa, don’t worry. I’m not here to hurt you. I, um, I think your tattoo is pretty cool.” A sparkle lit in her eyes that quickly diminished after being overtaken by suspicion. “Who are you?” She demanded.

“Haywood Clover, but you can just call me Clover.” She repeated my last name slowly, “Clover, huh?” I hummed in agreement and asked what her name was in return. She responded that it was Iliad. Interesting.

I began to smile again at my realization. “What are you doing? Is that some expressive insult in your native town?” And the fists are back up again… “No, no, it’s just that in Greek mythology, the name ‘Iliad’ is used to describe a story and I thought it was cool that your parents must have known something about that!” 

I winced. Not only would she not understand the reference (if her parents were smart enough to protect her from illegal information, that is) but I’d shared too much about my purpose for being here. Just because she has a tattoo doesn’t mean she’s one of the rebels. If I’m not dead by the end of this, I’ll count it a miracle.

“You aren’t… are you? You don’t look the type.” My smile quickly diminished. Crossing my arms, I retorted. “What do you mean I don’t look like a rebel!? I suppose you believe rebels have a dress code that includes black army paint on their face or something like you seem to sport.” She smirked before stating matter of factly, “Well, freckles and glasses don’t exactly scream ‘rebel’”. 

Tilting back and forth on my heels, I asked, “Want to do something fun?” Before allowing her to respond, I took her by the hand, threw my backpack onto the ground, and tucked the scrap metal under my arm. She attempted to yank it away as I ran with her up the mountain. “What does fun mean?”

“I’m going to show you!”

“How!?” We stumbled up the rest of the way in silence. I allowed myself to savor the sounds of the wet ground under my feet and the chill fall atmosphere. She stared at me curiously as I closed my eyes, letting the air flow in and out of my nose as I found myself doing frequently.

I skidded to a halt. Placing the scrap metal on the floor, I stepped onto it confidently, signaling to Iliad to hop on behind me in pursuit. She did so hesitantly. Rolling my eyes teasingly, I placed her hand onto my chest and the other one on top. Iliad flinched at the sudden contact and I wondered what this girl has gone through to make her so tough. 

“Ready to do this?” She shook her head but I pushed on anyway. We went soaring down the mountainside, swerving in and out of rocks and trash remnants. Iliad buried her head into my back which made my face flush a bright red.

Is this what Shakespeare described in his plays as love?

Underneath her small, calloused hand where it sat clutching my shirt tightly, the familiar dark gray began to melt away into a fuchsia pink. I gawked at it and placed my hand on top of hers as color had made its reappearance.